Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 40, No. 6, June, 1995

The electric gate must have jammed when the control box caught fire; it had to be forced open. Although the volunteers battered at the iron latches until they broke, it was too late to save anything by the time the trucks rolled up to the house. The hot, dry weather had primed the newly constructed building and everything around it to tinder perfection. Nothing was spared.

The commotion pulled the villagers out of their beds, and by dawn the entire population stood appalled at the sodden, smoldering mass. Their hopes, their dreams, their glorious future in providing a secret home for Phantom were no more.

Mark Daniels, everyone agreed afterwards, showed what a selfless, heroic human being he was both during and after the disaster. While the finished product of incredible organization, weeks of work, and probably millions of dollars’ worth of goods went up in a miserable puff of smoke, his main concern was that no one got hurt. While priceless works of art were being reduced to ash, he had patrolled the property, keeping rubberneckers clear of falling debris and smoke.

Yes, Mark had a heart of gold. Of course, these admiring comments began circulating right after he announced that everything was insured to the hilt, so there would be plenty of money to reimburse everyone for the slightest effort made on Phantom’s behalf. Everyone would be paid in full for everything, regardless of the disaster.

A rush was made to fax Phantom the news about the current status of his home-to-be. He was advised to divert his path from Wyndham, since they were no longer ready to receive him. A reply, received later, was read aloud by Skip to those assembled — crammed — into the Town Hall at four on the afternoon of the fire. When he added that Phantom would be checking into a prominent Los Angeles hospital for his rest, it nearly broke the listeners’ hearts. “We’ll rebuild this house!” shouted someone. “Better than ever! Fireproof!” cried others.

Then Skip tactfully informed the villagers that Phantom would never be coming to Wyndham. The loss of his beloved possessions was too bitter a memory to face. The listeners became teary-eyed and a few in the back of the room sobbed openly. The Village Board trustees stared at each other in dismay. Years of prosperity, up in smoke.

Just as people were beginning to stir, to console each other with reminders of how many had benefited from Phantom over the last weeks, a reporter from the local paper, Mr. Scott Bade, strode into the crowded hall.

Instead of joining in the general mood of mourning, Scott snatched a chair from the mayor’s platform and stood on it, waving his arms for attention. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he announced that the name of the heir to Aisa Garrett’s company, North Shore Industries Corporation, had just been made public by the corporation’s lawyer. As some listeners loudly questioned “why bring that up now?” the reporter continued: “The heir, folks, the heir! Instead of Mr. Matthew Drexel — it’s Ms. Peggy Marcastle, personal secretary and executive assistant of Aisa Garrett. She now owns all of Mr. Garrett’s assets, including controlling shares of stock in NSIC, which pretty much makes her the owner of North Shore Industries Corporation!” Scott surveyed the packed room in satisfaction as every man and woman there froze in shocked silence.

When he judged they’d absorbed that bit of news, he blurted, “And not just that, folks! Mr. Matthew Drexel, former executive vice president of North Shore Industries, is to be arrested shortly for the murder of Aisa Garrett.” Seemingly unconcerned, or maybe just ignoring the fact that the possibly slandered Drexel was at this moment standing up on Mayor Harper’s platform next to the mayor, he continued, “Detectives from the Sixth Precinct Homicide Department will be making their arrest based on the evidence found in Aisa Garrett’s body during an autopsy.

“This poison, identified as Tri-Zan, is the same stuff that poisoned Mr. Daniels’ construction crew at Phantom’s house. Mr. Drexel had access to the poison, which was banned from Long Island after World War II, by having been put in charge of ridding NSIC of its old supply of Tri-Zan ten years ago during NSIC’s cleanup campaign, which many here will remember. A stash of it was found in his private office for which he will be asked to account.”

And with that, Scott jumped down from his perch, beaming at the stunned villagers. Only a few noticed the “okay” sign he flashed with his thumb and fingers to someone at the back of the room.

Then, breaking this silence, came a loud, high-pitched anguished, “Noooooo!” To the mayor’s astonishment, this undignified yelp had come from the mouth of Mr. Drexel. Mr. Drexel leaped from the mayor’s platform. He forged a path through the tightly packed people with his fists, propelled by furious energy.